The Ferelden Play
by The Phoenix King
Summary: Choices, like the dead, have a way of haunting you... An entry for The-Bards-College "In Eyes of the Bad Guy" Summer Collaboration Contest on DeviantArt, with art by Gaspode5. Minor spoilers for "The Grey Path" are present.


_A/N: This was a short story I recently did for a collaboration contest held by The-Bards-College on DeviantArt, with the wonderful Gaspode5 handling the art side of things (if you haven't checked out her art and stories, I'd highly recommend it). We ended up winning it too, so even better! The theme of the contest was "a day in the life of a villain", so as you can imagine, I just had to do a story revolving around Loghain. Like a lot of my other short stories, this is set in the same continuity as "The Grey Path", though I've tried to keep some of the details a bit vague to avoid any real, tremendous spoilers for things coming up there. Regardless, hope you all enjoy, and let me know what you think!_

* * *

 **The Ferelden Play**

Ferelden was a land of winter, the harsh snows and biting cold that came with the turn of the seasons as much a part of its culture as the Fereldans' love for their hounds and their hate for the Orlesians. Yet even for a kingdom inured to the grip of frost and darkness, the winter that descended upon the land in the waning days of the thirtieth year of the Dragon Age was beyond anything in living memory, a final, spiteful gift from a year that had already taken so much from them. Cailan, valiant King of Ferelden, had perished at Ostagar's gorge with too many brave souls at his side, and with the loss of his army, little stood between Ferelden and the ravening darkspawn hordes, claiming village after village as they burned, poisoned and slaughtered their way north. Hunger, disease, civil disorder and now open rebellion, the past few months had seen all these tribulations and more levelled upon the people of Ferelden, sending thousands fleeing for the safety of its walled cities and more still across the Waking Sea in hopes of escaping the chaos.

Even in Denerim, the seat of royal power and strongest and richest city in all of Ferelden, a palpable sense of despair could be felt upon the snow-covered streets, refugees and residents alike sobbing at the cruel embrace of winter, with every icy gust of wind carrying dank ashes from the still-smouldering Denerim Alienage in a further reminder that dissent would not be tolerated under the iron hand that now ruled Ferelden. This city, this kingdom, now belonged to Loghain Mac Tir. To defy him was to be labelled heretic and traitor, the Reverend Mother Hale routinely proclaimed in her fiery sermons, and so the people of Denerim, cowed, hungry and miserable, tried to wait out the many storms that beset them, the flames of hope but sullen embers in their hearts.

Yet even in the halls of the Royal Palace, the epicentre of so much authority, power and privilege, there was scarcely more contentment to be found. The food might have been well-prepared, the wine plentiful, and the hearth blazing fierce and bright, but the promised feast was little more than an interrogation over dinner, all thought of gaiety and merriment discarded as the six highborn men at the feasting table squirmed anxiously upon the carved pine benches, the seventh figure sitting at the head grinding his teeth in frustration. "You're telling me that Telman still defies me, Coerlic?" Loghain Mac Tir demanded, face as hard and unforgiving as mountain granite. Food and wine both stood ignored as the Regent of Ferelden verbally laid into the nobleman, his normally pale features flushed red with anger. "You assured me that you could bring him to heel, so how was it your men were defeated? You outnumbered him by at least half!"

"Forgive me, Regent, I did all that could be done, but Telman had allies," Bann Coerlic whimpered. Like the rest of Loghain's guests, the nobleman was clad in rich velvet and jewelled rings as befitting his station, yet in the face of his liege lord's anger, took on a mien more suited to a chastised schoolchild than a Bann of Ferelden. Wringing his hands tremulously, Coerlic persisted in his excuses. "The few survivors who returned spoke of an elf aiding the renegade, with a party of strangers at his side! They said-"

"It was the Warden, Sagramor Tabris," Loghain growled, fixing Coerlic with a hard stare, intimidating even in his fine velvet doublet. He'd always hated the garb of nobility, feeling uncomfortable and out of place outside of his captured silverite plate armour, yet Anora had insisted upon it for this occasion, proclaiming it would serve as a symbol of confidence to walk about unarmoured in the safety of his own hall. Assassins were always a concern, Orlais' reputation for subterfuge well deserved, but it was difficult to deny his daughter anything, and thus he'd complied.

However, no amount of finery could disguise either his martial reputation or the folly of incurring his anger, and Coerlic shrank away from the intensity of that hateful gaze. _He fears me. Good._ Like the rest of the assembly, Coerlic was loyal to him, and fear would keep him so far better than trust or gratitude ever could. Cailan had sought to win the love of the people, yet more proof that Maric's son had deserved his fate, but Loghain knew better than to trust in such childish follies. _I will not let Orlais retake this land because I lacked the stomach to do all that was necessary. Better they fear me than permit Orlesian influence to take root here._

As it clearly had in the Warden, and all his ilk. When Loghain first learned that two of the Grey Wardens had survived the disaster at Ostagar, he'd taken steps to remove them, to expunge their influence, and that of Orlais. from the country before it could take root. Yet with the Void's own luck, they survived and lived to plague him, the elven Warden leading them through ambushes and thwarting his bounty hunters, evading his reach every step of the way. He'd even subverted one of the Antivan Crows Howe had spent so much coin procuring, the elven assassin sent to kill him now a willing follower of the Warden cause. Barely a day passed without some new rumour about Sagramor and his mongrel company, each more fanciful than the last: the Warden had slain an army of demons, the Warden had bedded a witch-princess of the Dalish elves to enlist the aid of their pagan tribes, the Warden had obtained an ancient dwarven superweapon, the Warden had stolen a vast treasure trove from beneath the gaze of deathless guardians, the Warden had single-handedly conquered an ancient fortress… the gossip was as endless as it was infuriating, and not even the stern punishments Loghain had mandated against such lie-spinners across the realm could stem the tide. The most recent, and increasingly widespread, rumour stated that the Warden had cured Arl Eamon with the Sacred Ashes of Andraste, returning to Redcliffe bearing both the Ashes and the bones and flesh of a High Dragon he'd personally slain, a drunken lie if ever there was one. _Damn that apostate for not doing the job properly…_

"How? How can a single miserable elf have evaded us for so long?" Loghain demanded, looking to each of his subordinates for an explanation, and receiving naught but nervous coughs and evasive glances in reply. Howe, Coerlic, Meurig, Loren, Chester, Dunwich: these were his closest allies in the Landsmeet, the most committed to his cause and through whom his will was imposed upon an increasingly ungrateful and defiant Ferelden, and that none of them could offer an answer for their continued failings only stoked the Regent's ire to new heights. "You come to me, sers," Ferelden's erstwhile ruler stated, naked scorn dripping from every word, "trumpeting every petty deed you've accomplished since my regency began, but against the greater threats facing this land, you offer nothing but pathetic excuses. You bear news of how you've broken the fingers of every minstrel who's dared criticize me and quashed bread riots on your own lands, yet time and time again, you've allowed a mere Alienage rat and his band of misfits to slip through your fingers. You even permitted him to enter and escape this city under your watch, Rendon!"

At the right hand of his liege lord, Rendon Howe visibly bristled at the criticism, whilst standing watch behind and to the right of her master, the briefest of smiles broke through Ser Cauthrien's silent reserve, her contempt for the venal Arl of Amaranthine manifesting for an instant and gone before Loghain could notice. "There were… traitors amongst the city guard, my lord, who permitted the Warden's company entry. They have since been dealt with."

"A treachery you should have uncovered before the Warden could exploit it," Loghain pressed. "Bad enough that your hired assassin broke bond with us to ally with the man he was supposed to kill, but must your failings extend to the defense of this city as well?"

Teeth clenched, Howe visibly struggled to swallow his pride, discretion at last winning out in the face of Loghain's anger. Not for the first time, Loghain silently wondered how it was he'd been forced to rely upon such self-serving weaklings, the draught of rich Neverran red doing little to wash away the bitter taste of that indignity. Howe was a petty, grasping wretch of a man, ever eager to line his pockets, but the rest of them were little better. Coerlic was the last word in obsequiousness, the punishment Loghain and Maric had doled out to his father more than sufficient to keep him in line, to the extent that he'd find virtue and brilliance in the contents of the Regent's chamberpot if so pressed. Loren was a weasel, every mercurial shift in his loyalties masked behind a shield of self-serving piety. As for the others… _What does it say about me that such creatures are the most eager to follow my banner?_ he dared consider for a moment. The likes of Eamon or Alfstanna or Bryce Cousland were not to be found here. Angrily, he smothered that thought in its crib. Doubt was a man's true enemy, more dangerous than Orlesians or darkspawn alike, and he would not permit it to take root in any form.

And yet… things had not transpired how they were supposed to. It had all been so simple: remove Cailan before his childish ambitions could surrender Ferelden back into the hands of its enemies, wipe the country clean of the foreigners and Orlesian sympathizers who would undermine their liberty, and make a Ferelden worthy of Anora, one strong to endure all challenges and against which no threat could jeopardize her reign. But nothing had gone according to plan. The nobles who were supposed to flock to his banner and acknowledge his authority as Ferelden's greatest general instead shirked their duties, refusing to comply with his orders or even outright took up arms against him. The populace that should have offered him the deference he deserved for his deeds during the Rebellion instead chafed under his rightful rule, unwilling to make the sacrifices required to prevent Orlais from reconquering the kingdom. And the Grey Wardens, that worthless pack of failures, second sons and pressed criminals, endured despite their losses at Ostagar; neither his condemnations of their Order as traitors nor the increasingly absurd reward he'd posted on their heads stopping commoners, nobles and non-humans alike from flocking to their side. And as a final indignity, the power he'd obtained as Regent proved more shackle than gift, the endless minutiae and deliberation of governance torture to a man accustomed to seeing his will enacted unquestioningly and without delay. Nothing was what it should have been, and Loghain rubbed his right temple in hopes of banishing his latest headache. "And what's this I hear about rebels plaguing your son in Highever, Rendon? Some foolishness about a ghost?"

"Merely a superstitious title given to a brigand, Your Grace. This 'Ghost of Highever' is naught but an irritant, hardly a threat to your rule over the terynir."

"Then disposing of it will be an easy matter, shouldn't it?" Loghain remarked acidly, sipping again from the goblet. _Ghosts,_ he mused bitterly. That such foolish superstitions were given even the slightest credence amongst the common folk was but more evidence of how weak they'd become under Cailan's rule. _Is it any wonder they shirk their duties to this land, and curry favour with foreigners and traitors over their rightful lord?_ Ferelden would become like he was, a thing unto iron, and the cowards and naysayers who dogged his every action with their whispered objections would find no mercy in him. There was no place for cravens in his Ferelden.

" _And who are you to call other men craven? You who deserted the field of battle."_

The accusation, so softly-spoken, still struck Loghain with the force of a battering ram, curdling his anger afresh. "What did you say, Howe?"

"My lord?"

"You insulted me, cur, under your breath. _What did you say?_ "

"I said nothing, my lord!" Howe protested, shrinking away as Loghain leapt up from his seat with a clenched fist, pride forgotten at the threat.

"Then who was it? Coerlic? Dunwich? Who dared to insult me so?"

All around the table, the nobles turned to each other in confusion, cowed by their lord's outburst. "None of us, lord," Coerlic at last mustered the courage to speak. "We said nothing."

" _They were thinking it, of course. How could they think anything else after what you did? After you turned tail and left so many people to die?"_

"My lord, are you well?" Cauthrien asked, daring to put a hand on his shoulder.

With a grunt, Loghain shrugged her off, crossing over to the chamber door and throwing it open with a savage crash. "You men!" he demanded, the two sentries on either side of the entrance instantly leaping to attention. "Who passed by here a moment ago?"

"Passed by, my lord?" the first guard asked, confused. "We've been keeping the hallway cleared, as per your orders. None have come by in the past hour."

"Do you take me for a fool, soldier? Tell me who dared slander me from out here."

The guards gave each other a nervous glance. "No one, lord. No one has come."

A meaty fist clashed against the sentry's helm, sending him staggering backwards. "Then what bloody man is that who mocks me under his breath?" the Teryn demanded, deaf to the anxious mutterings of his guests. "Who sees fit to insult me in my own hall, at my own table?!"

"No one would dare, my lord!" Coerlic piped up, gesturing back towards the feasting table. "Perhaps it was just a gust of wind; the palace can be rather drafty in the winter, after all. Come, take your place at our head and tell us what you would have of us. We live to serve, one and all."

Yet Loghain hardly registered the nobleman's fawning words, his attentions instead fixated on the cloaked figure that had taken his place at the table, shrouded in black, its featured concealed beneath the darkened hood. His longsword whispering free of its sheath, Loghain levelled the shining steel at the newcomer, the motion sending his guests stumbling backwards in fear. "Who are you? What are you doing here? Speak!"

" _You know who I am."_

"What is it, my lord?" Howe asked, seemingly oblivious to the hooded spectre not three feet to his left. Sensing her master's distress, Cauthrien had drawn her own blade, visibly unnerved by the behaviour of her lord, yet she too was no more aware of the intruder than the rest. "Are… are you all right?"

" _Of course you're not, Loghain,"_ came the mocking whisper from beneath the intruder's hood. _"You're hearing whispers and seeing phantoms; not exactly the strong and stable leadership vassals expect of their lord, now is it? Look at them. Even now, they begin to doubt."_

Clearing his throat nervously, Bann Loren stepped back from the table, naked worry reflected in his eyes. "His lordship is merely fatigued. Gentlemen, perhaps we should retire?"

" _See? Your hold over them is already fracturing. How can you rule a kingdom when you can't even rule yourself?"_

"Yes, out," Loghain breathed, unmanned by the growing realization that the speaker's voice was known to him. "Get out, all of you!"

Bowing quickly, the nobles hastened to obey, retreating from the chamber as fast as they could, each man radiating disquiet at the sudden turn of events. Cauthrien made to approach, and Loghain stopped her in place with a cold stare. "Did I ask you to stay, Cauthrien? You as well."

Stinging at the dismissal, the Teryn's sworn sword departed her master's side, provoking further words of scorn from the cloaked figure. _"You've done her ill since Ostagar, Loghain. The man I knew would never treat his soldiers so shabbily, or hold their loyalty so cheaply."_

Up came the longsword once more. "Who are you? If you would speak to me, intruder, then have the courage to reveal yourself!"

" _You know who I am,"_ repeated the cloaked figure. Nevertheless, he complied, Loghain's eyes widening in recognition of the well-groomed blond beard, of the patrician features, once so full of warmth and charm and earnest enthusiasm, now reflecting nothing but utter contempt for the man who now held Ferelden's throne. _"But you've forgotten who you were, Loghain Mac Tir, forgotten to be the man I trusted and admired above all others, who earned men's respect instead of demanding it like a spoilt child."_

"Maric…" Loghain breathed, sheer shock sending him backwards a pace. The former King of Ferelden looked just as he had before he'd vanished at sea, over five years ago, a far cry from the callow youth he'd first met fleeing from the Usurper's henchmen. "This… this can't be real. You're dead…"

" _Am I?"_ the spectre of Maric Theirin remarked with a shrug. _"My body was never found, after all. But perhaps you're right. Perhaps I am a ghost, come to haunt you for your sins. Perhaps I'm just the last vestiges of your conscience, screaming to be heard. I suppose it doesn't matter. I'm here now, and you're going to listen."_

Pride stung by the dead man's words, Loghain's fear fell away, and he walled away his heart behind a shield of contemptuous iron. "Leave this place, ghost, if that is what you are, and never return. I have neither the desire nor the patience to explain myself to you. I will not stand condemned by beings of flesh and blood. What makes you think I'd accept such a challenge from you?"

" _And yet, today, you will."_

Teeth grinding, Loghain reached for the wine goblet yet again. "Of course. Who is a mere, jumped-up peasant to deny the will of Maric the Saviour?"

" _I never considered you such, Loghain."_

"Yet you dare stand in judgment of me now, just like all the others. They condemn me, though I have done more for this nation than most of those preening, highborn cowards have ever dared to dream, much less accomplish."

The spectre's mien went as dark as a thundercloud. _"And what deeds were those, old friend? Abandoning thousands of loyal soldiers in Ostagar's gorge to be slaughtered? Murdering my son through your craven inaction, before stealing his throne? Ruling with the same bitter capriciousness as the men we fought against? What laurels do you think you've earned lately?"_

"I did what had to be done, for the sake of Ferelden!" thundered Loghain. Worried mutterings emerged from behind the chamber door at the outburst, yet in his rage and wounded pride, Loghain paid it no heed, the buried resentment he'd held towards Maric all those long years breaching the surface in a torrent of hate. "You never understood that, Maric, neither you nor your weakling of a son, and that is why neither of you deserved to rule this land!"

" _And you do?"_

The question, so innocuous, so calmly asked, raked Loghain's soul like a rusted spur. "Who better? Who else has achieved as much as I have, or sacrificed as much for the sake of this nation? While you were off avenging that honourless Orlesian slut Katriel, I was crushing the Empire's elite at the River Dane. While you whinged and moaned like a petulant child about the demands of your responsibilities, I was holding you up, giving you the strength you needed to succeed. When you fell apart after Rowan died, I was there to carry the weight of governing this land, even though I loved her more than you ever could." A wave of melancholy suddenly assailed Loghain at the thought of the former Queen of Ferelden, and he tried to shove it aside, cursing himself for a sentimental fool. Rowan had been his for an evening, nothing more, and in the end and at his urging, she'd married Maric so that the nation might have strong leadership to call upon in times of trouble. He'd married another, and been faithful to her past her death, yet Rowan Guerrin still left an indelible mark upon his character. _I should have fought for her, damn the consequences, rather than let her wed a man so unworthy of her._ "I did this, Maric, not you! That every man, woman and child in Ferelden lives to call themselves free is my doing. Had it been left to you, Orlais would still rule here, and the legend of Maric the Saviour would be nothing."

Maric's ghost was silent for a moment. _"Is that what this is all about? You feeling cheated of the glory that I never wanted to begin with? Is that why my son died?"_

"Your son died because he was a traitor, a foolish child eager to shame my daughter and toss away all I had accomplished, all to curry favour with Orlais! I have not forgotten what they did to us, Maric, and I would see this country burn rather than fall into Orlesian hands again."

" _But that is the problem, isn't it?"_ the ghost persisted. _"There truly is nothing you won't do, all to defeat an enemy that has no interest in fighting us anymore. Ferelden burns, Loghain, at the touch of the darkspawn, yet you obsess over a war that's already been won. When the darkness comes to consume us all, how will torturing intellectuals and massacring the Denerim Alienage keep our people safe? How will closing the borders serve to shield us from an enemy that does not recognize the concept? Turn away from this madness, old friend, and face the true foe. Be the Hero of River Dane again, not Meghren reborn."_

"I am not your friend, Maric," came the Regent's bitter retort, "and I'm ashamed that I ever believed otherwise. It will take far more than your lecturing platitudes to turn me from my rightful course, and you have no power to enforce your will here. Begone. I'll set this nation to rights, like I always do, and no misguided idealists or treacherous cravens will stand in my way."

" _So you are committed, then? Reason cannot sway you?"_

" _Cowardice_ will not sway me, no matter what cloak it shrouds itself in."

" _Have you become so obsessed with the enemy that you've become them?"_ the spectre remarked, its form wavering, becoming as insubstantial as mist. _"The witch was right: I kept you close, and you betrayed me, each time worst than the last. Rowan would be ashamed of you."_

That last comment tripped his rage, and without thinking, Loghain stormed the distance between them in two vengeful strides, longsword slashing down. The ghost of Maric didn't even flinch. With a speed that would put lightning to shame, a massive greatsword interposed itself to absorb the blow, the savage clash of steel sending Loghain staggering backwards a pace, eyes widening in shock at the colours this newest intruder bore. _"What's the matter, Loghain? You look like you've seen a ghost,"_ mocked Maric's spectre, voice a dry rasp as he faded away completely. _"You're right, I might not have the power to stop you..."_

" _But the Grey Wardens might…"_

From within the stygian darkness beneath the deep cowl of its hood, the spectral Warden uttered a sibilant hiss, firelight glimmering off the polished contours of its half-plate armour. In his hands was a sword like no other; four-and-a-half feet of a strange blue alloy held in an experienced grip, ablaze both with magical runes and with an unusual, pale light that emanated from the very metal itself, a light in the darkness where none dared to shine. Sexless within the shroud of its armour and long blue cloak, its head turned beneath the gloom of the cowl, and Loghain was struck by the sudden realization that to look upon its face was to die. "Begone, spirit," said the Regent, mouth dry with fear. "Alive or dead, you Wardens have no place-"

Shadowfast, it came for him, the massive weapon wielded with a skill and dexterity impossible for a blade of that length. Reflexes dulled by nerves and drink, Loghain barely managed to parry in time to avoid getting shorn apart, swordarm reverberating with the impact of the blow. Recovering, he went for the shield sitting beside his chair, and the spectre brought its sword around, hilt slamming into the Regent's unprotected chest.

Cursing that he'd accepted his daughter's recommendation to forgo his armour for the space of an evening, Loghain riposted, the world around him forgotten in the face of this affront, to call for his guards an option scarcely considered. He was the Hero of River Dane, Regent of Ferelden and the man who'd freed the nation. To fall now, against such a creature, would make a mockery of all he'd accomplished and leave Ferelden bereft of the one man who could save it from all its enemies, so he pressed the attack, longsword desperately seeking a way past his opponent's guard. With casual ease, the spectre countered each strike, every motion fluid and efficient, silent even as Loghain's breath became laboured, and frustration only drove the warlord on, the walls of the feasting chamber echoing with the intensity of the struggle.

When the end came, it came swiftly. Loghain cried out in triumph as his blade thrust towards his enemy's chest, the exaltation of victory vanishing as the greatsword came down upon it, cleaving the lesser metal in twain. Cursing, Loghain thrust the broken blade towards the spectre's empty face, but it had reach on its side, and the strange metal buried itself deep in his ribs.

"No…" the Hero of River Dane whimpered, the hilt tumbling from his hands with a clatter. The blade withdrew, and Loghain fell to his knees, trying in vain to stem the tide of blood pouring from his chest. "Anora… I… _Ferelden…_ "

From beneath the hood, Alistair Theirin offered a hateful stare, before rearing back and taking off his enemy's head in a single swing.

* * *

At the blade's touch, Loghain awoke with a shuddering gasp, hands immediately flying towards his neck and finding the flesh whole. The hearth had long since gone dim, leaving only cold shadows to greet him as he rose from amidst the floor rushes, immediately racing towards the nearest wine bottle. _You old fool,_ he cursed himself, wishing his hands would stop shaking. It had been nothing but a dream, no doubt brought on by stress and fatigue and the strain of dealing with vipers like Howe. That was the only logical explanation. No ghosts had come to haunt him. No dead king had seen fit to lecture him from beyond the grave. To think otherwise was insanity.

And yet… the memory of Maric's words lingered like carrion crows above the battlefield, picking away at his hidden doubts, and no amount of wine or pride could fully dispel them. The questions he'd refused to consider emerged to plague him yet again, and for the first time since he set himself on this course, Loghain felt his will truly falter.

But only for a moment. _I have come too far to turn back now. Ferelden remains beset by enemies, and I will see them all destroyed, and my daughter's reign secured. No matter what it costs me…_


End file.
